


Horseshoes & Hand Grenades

by rebelxxwaltz



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-13 16:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2157966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelxxwaltz/pseuds/rebelxxwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. In a dingy Arizona motel, 'almost' is the word of the hour no matter how many ways Walt and Vic try to deny it. Walt/Vic, some extended musings during 'Of Children and Travelers.' Now complete with an additional chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I am brand-spanking-new to this fandom, but my hand slipped and whoops! Some fic popped out. I watched (more like binged) all three series of Longmire over the past couple weeks, and I shipped the hell out of Walt/Vic from the start.
> 
> Here is a little something which digs a bit deeper into what might've been going on in Walt's mind during certain scenes from 'Of Children and Travelers.' Un-beta'ed and minimally edited due to my impatience. Hope someone enjoys it!

**xxxxx**

**Horseshoes & Hand Grenades**

If there was one thing that Walt Longmire had truly become aware of in the past year and change, it was that being honorable wasn't the same as living a life that was above reproach.

Moral ambiguity was a reality of life, and at times an important weapon in the arsenal of true justice. In his line of work, you either learned to bend the rules around the subtleties of right and wrong or you found your spirit crushed beneath the uncompromising heel of a law that was authored without provision for human error.

In simpler terms, sometimes to be a 'good' person you had to do 'bad' things.

Move a body. Threaten a stalker. Let an innocent man take the rap for a guilty one or carefully un-notice a damning piece of evidence that could ruin a family's livelihood… there were a lot of variations on the theme. As a sheriff this was a concept Walt understood, subscribed to even, but navigating through those endless shades of grey suddenly got a whole lot harder when it came to just being a  _man_.

And so here he found himself on one side of a connecting door in a dingy motel in Nowhere, Arizona, separated from his maddeningly sexy and unquestionably  _married_  deputy by a few inches of flimsy wood and a howling chasm of guilt and self-doubt.

How the hell was he supposed to apply those flexible rules of right and wrong to  _this_  situation?

Walt had no respect for men like Barlow Connally, who could summarily disregard the intricate workings of a couple's life together to serve their own baser needs with a few hours of meaningless pleasure at the hands of a married woman. He had always been quick to judge in cases such as this.  _How do people live with themselves?_ It was a question he had asked on many occasions, but never before had he felt such an urge to ask it of himself.

As he thought about Vic on the other side of that door, Walt realized that he had already begun to rationalize, to calculate the degree of culpability he could accept and how far he was willing to push this…  _thing_  between them before they reached the point of no return.

How easy could it be to tell himself that this wasn't the  _same_ , that they weren't like Barlow Connally and Julia Sublette, that the circumstances were different and there were  _feelings_  involved to the point where it could never be as cheap or unscrupulous as whatever tawdry arrangement Ed Gorski had lured Vic into all those years ago in Philly. Was he willing to believe that it was really that different, because it was  _them_?

Mrs. Sublette had wanted some passion in her life while Gorski, it seemed, had desired Victoria Moretti almost to the point of obsession. Walt shifted his weight as he sat on the uncomfortable motel bed, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw and then frowning as he looked down at his hands. How could he be so quick to judge, when it was clear that he shared so much in common with  _both_  of them?

Desire and passion were concepts he'd not given much thought to in many years, not up until recently. His marriage to Martha had been happy and yes, they'd had those things. They'd been some of the lucky ones— they'd never fallen out of love with each other and it was only after Martha became seriously ill that the more physical aspects of their relationship fell by the wayside completely. The combination of sorrow and anger that had consumed him after his wife's death had ensured that such matters didn't cross Walt's mind for a long while after that, not until he'd met Lizzie Ambrose and let her under his guard in spite of his own better judgement.

In the end he was ashamed of his conduct toward Lizzie, who had been so earnest in her pursuit of him. Walt had given into the less than noble impulses that she'd encouraged not because he wanted the intimacy that she seemed to crave, or even the carnal pleasures she was offering. No, he'd done it just to prove that he  _could._ To feel first hand that he was still enough of a man to please a woman, to make her body flush with heat as he drove her higher, make her shake and moan his name while he pressed her into the mattress with the force of his thrusts.

Walt had passed that particular test with flying colors, and the brand of karma created by his ill-considered actions made itself abundantly clear the following day when his daughter ended up in the hospital on life support— the result of someone else's poor choices serving as a sickening mirror through which he was forced to reflect upon his own.

Such treatment of a woman who Walt would readily admit he was not in love with was unpardonable in and of itself, but it had also opened up a regular Pandora's box of related issues ranging from an untimely resurgence of his own virility and sexual awareness to the mind-exploding realization that it wasn't only Martha's memory that he felt he had betrayed— now there was also his deep, hidden,  _impossible_  and ever-growing affection toward a certain blonde deputy to keep him up at night.

God, Vic confused him. Infuriated him, inflamed him, made him want to protect and care for her and shower her with tenderness in the exact same breath where he was willing to compromise almost everything he believed in just to get  _closer_. The fact that she was married somehow seemed less and less important by the day, at least within the confines of his mind's lewd imaginings. Perhaps he would have been able to better control those rampaging thoughts if he wasn't so sure Vic was right there with him, sizing him up like a predatory cat, hungry and all too ready to pounce.

All that bad girl talk in the bar had sounded so much like an invitation, delivered in a low sultry voice that caused an unruly tightness in his jeans even  _before_ Vic sealed her pink lips over the opening of his beer bottle in an action that was far too much like a kiss to be ignored. Walt still wasn't sure if it had been a calculated move on her part, but it had short-circuited the bits of his brain that were capable of functions much higher than stating the obvious.

" _That's my beer,"_ he had said, a triumph of reticent cowboy speech that was practically Shakespearean in its level of oblique misdirection. It had certainly wrong-footed Vic, jarring both of them free from a hypnotic spell of what his staring partner would probably refer to as  _eye-fucking_.

Food and fresh air had calmed things down to an extent, but that unspoken tension that always seemed to exist between them lately remained stubbornly in place as they followed the concrete pathway to their assigned lodgings. When they made to turn in for the night it was so much like the end of a date that the urge to press Vic against the doorframe and kiss the smile right off her face as she helped him with his room key was nearly overwhelming. Walt held himself in check, barely, corralled both by the tastelessly decorated confines of his room and by his own miraculously steadfast limitations.

Releasing a long sigh, he contemplated that connecting door once again. Such devices were created to make things easier for friends and families when they traveled together, not to facilitate down and dirty trysts between work colleagues. Especially not colleagues with a boss/employee-- or sheriff/deputy-- power disparity. Nevertheless, Walt was taunted by imaginings of all the things he was almost,  _almost_  prepared to do.

He was almost ready to knock on that door, hoping that Vic would answer in her unintentionally alluring pajamas, face scrubbed clean and wedding ring discarded on the bedside table so that he could forget about it when he clasped her fingers and dragged her body against his.

What would it be like, if he were ready to throw aside his scruples and put his hands  _everywhere_ , the way he'd thought about a thousand times? He imagined how Vic's breath would hitch, wide eyes fixed on his as she gripped her hands into his shirtfront and pulled herself up to capture his lips with her own.

It was almost too easy to think about removing each other's clothing in a frenzy, whispering encouragements as their limbs tangled in an urgent dance. He was sure she would be aggressive, untamed, but he could also envision a softness— a sensual compliance which would match so well with his need to say things to her with his body that he wasn't sure he was capable of putting into words.

Walt Longmire was almost ready to surrender, and the soft knock on that connecting door could so easily have been the final nail in the coffin of his self-control. When he turned the knob and peered into the next room to find his deputy suited and booted, face hard and body language undoubtedly all business, he remembered a phrase he'd heard once or twice:

Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.

Swiftly gathering his things, Walt mused on the meaning of that phrase. Horseshoes themselves were meant to be good luck, while a hand grenade could blast you to kingdom come even without the accuracy of a direct hit. When it came to his increasingly complicated relationship with Vic Moretti Walt knew he was dealing with a bit of both— he just hoped his luck would hold out long enough for them to take cover before their precariously balanced world blew up in both their faces.

**xxxxx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally intended as a one-shot, but the other perspective demanded to be written! Thanks to all who left comments and kudos on this, my first fic in a fandom that is new to me. :D

**Horseshoes & Hand Grenades  
** **Part II: Vic**

Shit.

Shit shit shit, what the fuck was she doing? Could that have possibly sounded  _more_  like a come-on? Well, maybe if she had just winked and gone, "Hey Walt, you know what they say about motels like this…"

Vic mentally cringed. He probably would have just peered at her with that handsome, serious face of his, said "Nope," and gone back to silently contemplating his beer.

_Yeah great idea, genius. Keep talking about how bad girls just want love and thinking about your boss as_ _'_ _handsome_ _'_ _and see how awkward this can **r**_ _ **eally** _ _get. There are already at least thirty-seven people, probably up to and including your own_ _**husband** _ _, who think you_ _'_ _re sleeping with Walt. Which is approximately half the population of Absaroka County, so what have you got to lose?_

Maybe it was more like thirty-eight, if one were to include her own overactive imagination. As the bartender delivered another beer— her very own beer,  _this_  time— she snuck a glance at off-duty Walt. Off-duty Walt wasn't really all that different from regular Walt (was the man ever  _really_  off-duty?) other than the absence of the telltale badge and hat.

Thinking about Walt's hat was a  _bad_  idea, because it only served to awaken the fantasy of fucking him while he was still wearing it. Or threading her fingers through that glorious mop of hair, if he wasn't. In fact she'd thought about doing those things with him so many times, it was likely there had been imaginary instances where  _she_  was wearing the hat. And boy howdy, didn't  _that_  idea have her crossing her legs and biting her lip and finding herself suddenly unable to look him in the eye without turning as red as a tomato.

Life had been moving at such a breakneck pace recently, Vic found she hardly knew what to do with herself in these quieter moments. In the past she and Walt had enjoyed comfortable silences, but something had changed between them since that night at his cabin when Lizzie Ambrose had all but outright accused them of being involved.

" _Lizzie, there's nothin' going on between me and Vic. Nothin'."_

Why had that plain-spoken statement caused such a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach?

" _Oh, Walt. Of course there is. You're just too afraid to admit it."_

Neither of them had said anything after Lizzie stormed out. Vic wondered whether his silence could be interpreted as the absence of a denial, because she was pretty sure that was the exact moment when she had finally stopped lying to  _herself_. He might not have been afraid; she wasn't sure if she'd ever seen  _anything_  scare him. Vic on the other hand? Oh, she was afraid alright. She was a married woman who was head over heels in love with a man who wasn't her husband. Her life was a total wreck, a ticking time bomb, and trust Ed Gorski to show up and light the fuse.

If Gorski hadn't come all the way to Wyoming and started screwing with her head, maybe she could have gone on being stubbornly oblivious where her carefully buried emotions were concerned. Without Gorski she never would have been at Walt's cabin in the first place, wishing for the floor to open up and swallow her as Lizzie flew off the handle and then laying awake for hours with visions of Walt's dripping wet  _naked_  upper body dancing around the edge of her subconscious. On top of all that, Gorski managed to create even more discord in her already fragile relationship with Sean, to the point where having him constantly away on business was honestly a damn relief.

Now here she was, hundreds of miles from her adopted home, after long hours of possibly one-sided awkward sexual tension on the drive down here, checked into exactly the type of motel you would use for a quick and dirty rendezvous, alone with her  _boss_ , who also happened to be the man she wanted to— she  _wanted_ —

"You wanna eat?"

She cleared her throat. "Yep."

Their fingertips brushed as he handed her the menu. She could see the muscles in his throat shift as he swallowed heavily and looked at her out of the corner of one steel-blue eye. She could hardly concentrate on the concise list of food items, ordering the simplest burger on offer and hoping to make it through the next half-hour without losing her cool and outright propositioning Walt Longmire right here in the middle of the restaurant.

It should have been better back in her room, but it wasn't. Not being in the same space as him was just making her that much more aware of his presence on the other side of that connecting door, and the mere idea taunted her relentlessly as she took off her jacket and shoes. As she slipped the wedding ring off her finger, she could only think about what he might be doing.

Was he taking a shower, like he'd done that night at the cabin? She thought about his wet hair and bare torso, for the thousandth time.

They hadn't exactly planned for this trip… would he sleep in his clothes or strip down to his underwear? Now  _there_  was an intriguing concept.  _Boxers or briefs, sheriff?_

She wondered what it would be like just to climb into bed with him, press her body to his and fit herself into his embrace like the missing piece to a puzzle. He'd be solid, warm as a furnace, and she imagined those long arms winding around her and pulling her in until she could feel her own breath hot against the skin of his neck.

What would it be like to kiss him? She'd thought about it happening at the climax of one of their arguments, riding that heightened emotion straight into a tangle of fused lips and grasping hands. Or maybe it would be something softer, born out of the quiet support they drew from each other sometimes late at night at the station after the others had all gone home. They'd move closer of their own accord, Walt sitting on the edge of the desk to alleviate their height disparity. She imagined reaching out, stroking her fingers along his stubbled jaw as his large hands settled at the curve of her waist to bring her closer. She could almost envision what that kiss would taste like; dark coffee and fresh air and dancing flames from the fireplace in a Wyoming winter.

She sighed, slumping forward so that her arms dangled bonelessly into the gap between her knees. What was the use of waxing poetic? It was never going to happen, right? Vic was almost certain her marriage was over, but Walt would never willingly compromise his honor on a technicality. How did it go in flyover state vernacular?  _Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades_ , or some cowboy bullshit like that.

Unless…

Glancing at the connecting door again, she wondered. What if she pushed it 'til it broke? She could knock on that door right now, wishing like hell that he would answer it sleep-ready, without the usual armor of hat and belt and jacket and boots. If she invaded his personal space could she disarm him even further? She wanted to whisper his name, slowly press her lips to the corner of his mouth and feel the tension in his body as he placed his hands on her bare shoulders. That would be the moment. Would he push her away or drag her in hard, slanting his mouth over hers to deepen the connection?

Lost in her wild speculations, Vic wasn't conscious of the fact that she had risen from her perch on the bed until she felt the flat of her hand against the cool painted surface of the door. Fuck, what if they just let it happen? She closed her eyes and imagined everything up to the squeaking of the bedsprings as they wrestled each other's clothes off, rolling around and breathlessly grinding their bodies together atop the hideous geometric comforter.

There was something between them— even Lizzie had seen it.  _Sean_  had seen it. Either they were the last to know or just the last to be honest about it. Maybe it was time to take action, to lay it on the line. And if it all went to hell in a hand basket after this? Well, they would always have Arizona.

She had almost convinced herself, nearly worked up the courage. her arm tingled, ready to raise up and rap unsteady knuckles against that door in a bid to change everything. She was almost,  _almost_  fast enough, and then her phone rang and shattered that moment of reckless abandon.

Brought instantly back to earth by Branch's voice on the other end of the line, Vic took three deep breaths. One to draw her back from the lascivious Walt-filled fantasy land she'd been visiting, the next to find her center and prepare to focus on the task at hand, and a final breath to calm her nerves and school her features into full deputy mode before attempting to face the man on the other side of that door.

As she pulled on her boots and slipped her arms into the familiar duty jacket Victoria Moretti shook her head one last time, refusing to accept how close she'd been to pulling the pin on that grenade without a thought for the explosive consequences. And if the look on Walt's face when he opened the door suggested, for just a fleeting moment, that he had been ready to ride out the blast? She would keep that knowledge close, and when the time was finally right for them she wouldn't hesitate.

**xxxxx**

**Author's Note:**

> I may park myself on the edge of this fandom for a while. It's not often that I really get into something, and I've just started the books so I will have plenty to sustain my interest. There's no telling whether there may be more fic in the future, but I wouldn't rule the possibility out! :D


End file.
